Like a Boss
by Eesa
Summary: Joe wants coffee, Marie wants a husband. Stein smoking, and Spirit talking about woman's anatomy. No one can complain when Death reaper-chops a few of them to stay sane. Plus, he really wants some cinnamon buns.


Thanks to everyone who's reviewed my previous stories, I appreciate it.

Is Death not the most legit character in Soul Eater?

Even the most cheerful, fun-loving person has bad days. As such, Death was having a terrible, terrible day.

Maybe it was the fact that the eyeholes in his mask were cutting into his eyes. Maybe it was that his flowing, black robe was riding up in several unmentionable locations. Maybe it was that a certain child of his informed him during dinner that certain people of their status do not frolic around the beach on a nice summer day.

Maybe, he thought, certain people _liked_ to frolic, especially if certain people spent many a long hour at the gym to guarantee that he had lean, muscular thighs (or thigh, singular) for swimsuit season.

This was all hypothetical, of course.

He hated his mask. He hated his hat. He hated his whole office (for gods sake, it was filled with puffy white clouds. No wonder no one took him seriously.).

That as it may, Death sat at his desk, more angst-y than a fourteen-year-old girl with an acne problem. He simply didn't want to _do_ anything, and he was not in the mood for any shenanigans.

Unfortunately, as soon as the though passed through his head, he heard a stomping noise, not unlike an angry bull, coming nearer down the hallway. Soon, a rather pissed off Joe Buttataki came into view.

The sight of him irritated Death. Now, _here_ was a man who never had to visit the gym, or do those damn self-deprecating squats to tone upper thighs, or hear the gossipy whispers of other gym-goers saying "Isn't that Lord Death? Man, he's really let himself go."

Joe slammed a large, meaty fist onto Death's desk.

"Where," he yelled, tossing his head like a horse, "is my _coffee_?"

Death put on a cheerful face.

"Hiya there, Joe! Why, I'm sure I don't know."

"I have to bring my own coffee," Joe seethed, "seeing as how no one has ever head of coffee beans instead of instant, and now it's gone!"

"What kind of coffee was it? Death asked, nonchalantly.

"Mandheling."

"Mandolin?" Death was now holding a mandolin.

"No, Mandheling! Where did you even get that mandolin?"

"What mandolin?" Death was now not holding a mandolin.

"What the… I just…" Joe looked around wildly for the eight-stringed instrument.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"That doesn't matter right now! What matters is that I can't find my coffee, so _what are you going to do about it?"_

"Joe," Death said carefully. "I am the Lord of Death. I am not the Lord of Coffee. Besides, maybe a break from coffee would do you some good."

"I can quit any time I want!" Joe said wildly. "Just… Just not this week! I'm under a lot of pressure, okay? Just get me my damn coffee!"

Now, Death was a patient man, or at least something slightly like a man. But, even Death Gods have breaking points. And he had finally reached his.

Before he was the cheerful, happy-go-lucky, puppy adopting and recycling God of Death, he was the scary, ferocious God of Death who never, _ever_ recycled. And so, as Joe pushed him over the edge, somewhere deep inside his mind he reverted back to his old, scary ways.

"BITCH, I WILL CUT YOUR FACE!" He screamed at a rather frightened Joe. His voice was at least six octaves deeper and his mask eye- holes were transformed into triangles of death.

"All right," Joe said in a small, trembling voice. "I'll just go wait over there." He went to a corner of Death's office, crouched in the fetal position, and rocked back and fourth.

Death sat back down, fighting the urge to add, "That's how we do it in West Philly!" And attempted to get his temper back into control.

Damn if he wasn't getting a migraine. He really did not need this right now. Just the other day, the tailor phoned him to inform him that no, they did not make mittens in his size (XXXXXL) and maybe he should look somewhere else.

Of course, they were the only tailors in Death City and they knew full well he couldn't leave it and for gods sake, he was the God of Death, could they not just _make him a fucking pair of mittens for his overlarge hands._

Oh yeah, this migraine was going to be a doozy.

He reached for his high blood pressure pills (He didn't have any blood, he just liked the taste), and was working on his calming yoga chants when a tap-tap-tapping came closer and closer down the hallway.

Good god, no, not this early, not her, please not her-

Marie Mjolnir ran full speed into his office, gooey clumps of mascara and snot running down her face and flying everywhere.

"Lord Death!" She wailed. "Oh Lord Death, I'm single and I'm so alone _and NO ONE WILL EVER WANT TO MARRY MEEEEE_!"

Oh dear sweet Christ, Death though tiredly. He was beginning to wish that he had some of Joe's coffee.

Marie began stuffing chocolates into her mouth like they were going out of style.

"I mean, like I do everything Cosmo recommends!" She mumbled through a half-chewed mouthful of chocolate. "I got highlights, sent out 'flirty vibes' and learned one hundred and fourteen ways to suck a-"

"Marie," Death ground out in his most sing-song, cheerful voice, "maybe this isn't the right time in your life and career to get married! The Universe works in mysterious ways. There are plenty of fish in the sea. Ask not what your country can do for you, but-"

"Isn't the right time?" She shrieked. "Isn't the _right time_? I'm in the prime of my life! My uterus is literally at the peak of its career! Is it the eye patch? It's the eye patch, isn't it? I can take it off, I know it weirds some men out cause they think I only have one eye but some are into that stuff so-"

"As your boss, I don't know if I'm comfortable discussing this information with you-"

But Marie's eyes had glazed over. "Is that a new pencil sharpener on your desk?"

Death regarded her warily. He was very protective of said sharpener. He had ordered it directly from the Staples catalogue and it had taken six weeks to be delivered. Then there was the lawsuit for when the deliveryman was killed by a resident witch, which all resulted in a shit-ton of paperwork.

"Yes, it is."

"I bet that pencil sharpener would make a great husband. I can see our life now, an old house by the countryside, sloping green pastures, maybe some children a little further down the road. I mean, I wasn't thinking children at this point in my life, but if the sharpener insisted-"

There was no way in hell he was losing this sharpener. "Marie," he started carefully. "That sharpener has a reputation. I mean, think of all the pencils it sharpens, day after day, _without asking your permission_."

A vein started throbbing in Marie's temple. "That cheating bastard!" She whispered under her breath. And without further ado she reached out with her fist and smashed the pencil sharpener to bits.

In his mind, Death was falling to his knees and wailing, not dissimilar to Kid having a fit. It would be so easy to revert back to 'Scary Death' and knock some sense into her, but he had a fun-loving, zany image to maintain.

"Marie," Death tried, "maybe you could talk to someone else about this. Perhaps Nygus would be more suitable to-"

"Nygus? _Nygus?_ Are you kidding me? Because we both have a vagina, we're the exactly the same? Because obviously-"

Death slammed his fist down on his desk. "IMMA COME TO YOUR HOUSE," he bellowed, "AND FUCK YOU UP."

Marie joined Joe in the corner, too afraid to even cry.

Death blew out a big sigh, and sat back down in his chair. This day was dragging on, and he now had the nagging suspicion he left the iron on before he left for work. That was gonna get him all day. And he didn't even have anything _good_ for lunch. He had to cut all the carbs out of his diet for swim season, and now he didn't even want to go swimming. Thanks to a certain mini- shinigami. After work he was totally dropping by Cinnabon and getting a bun with extra icing.

Suddenly, a rather acrid smell floated by his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose under his mask.

Stein stuck his head in the doorway. "Hey."

A cigarette dangled from his mouth.

Death hadn't been this annoyed since he caught Kid using his mirror to spy in the girls change room. Had he not told Stein multiple times to not smoke in his office? It stuck in the furniture something fierce. Plus, the ashes floated everywhere and smudged, leaving grey streaks on his robe.

"Stein," he said kindly, "aren't you supposed to be teaching a class right now?"

Stein took a deep drag. "Yeah, I was," he said offhandedly. "Told 'em to try and fight to the death. I dunno, I feel a little peaky. Anyway, it'll be fun to see who'll win."

"At the DWMA, we generally try to _dissuade_ the students from killing each other."

"Yeah, well, this is good practice for the field. You know, real-life experience, building character, all that good stuff." Another long drag.

Then, he extended his arm, and _tapped his ashes onto the floor._

Death liked Stein, he really did. He was the god of Death, of course he admired a man who was legitametly insane. What kind of Death God would he be if he didn't like to surround himself with people who liked to cut other people open? Fuck, they even went out for drinks a couple nights a week, just two men, talking about disembowelment and the feeling of fresh innards in ones hands.

But this carpet was _Berber._

Yes, it had cost him a pretty penny, but when you son had OCD (he really meant to call a doctor to check out Kid one of these days) having a carpet in the house could be the worst thing, like, ever. Death had had multiple nightmares where Kid made him count every single carpet fibre before leaving the house. So he had it installed in his office, safe and far away from Kid.

Safe.

But now, Stein had tapped his ashes all over the pristine, white carpet, and that was simply unacceptable.

"YOU LISTEN UP, MOTHERFUCKER, YOU GET THAT CIGARATTE OUT OF MY FACE OR I WILL SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS."

And so Stein joined the others in the corner, all the while mumbling about where he could find nicotine patches. All three sat hunched over, shivering and trembling at random intervals. It was really quite crowded.

Death sat, fuming, utterly pissed off. This was one of the worst days in his long, long existence.

So it was quite understandable when Spirit walked in, going on and on about Oh My God you would not _believe_ the ass on this woman, it was _literally_ the most perfect ass, no really, I mean it, the greatest, Death reaper-chopped him into next week.

He left his office. He had to go see a man about some mittens.


End file.
